


Are You Okay?

by giggy_milkovich



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Comfort/Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gallavich, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, post 5x08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-17 22:20:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3545840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giggy_milkovich/pseuds/giggy_milkovich
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian and Mickey finally begin talking about what happened in 3x06. It's not easy, but it's a start. Set about two months in the future from where the show currently is (5x08).</p><p>Also Ian and Mickey saying words...to each other...**SHOCKING**</p>
            </blockquote>





	Are You Okay?

“Mick…”

 

The syllable dropped from Ian’s lips in a rough whisper. The rest caught at the back of his throat, scratching and pushing its way up through his cottonmouth but getting stuck at the base of his tongue. He reached for his bottle of yellow Gatorade and tipped it back, savoring the feeling of wet liquid wrenching his words free. He lightly sloshed it in his mouth and swallowed. Exhaled a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. 

 

Ian lightly nudged Mickey in his ribs as he lay next to him above the covers, bare arms folded behind his head. His blue eyes bore holes into the ceiling, either deeply riveted by the chipping paint or averting Ian’s gaze. The older boy’s bottom lip gave his actions away, gently trembling but always threatening to buckle under the weight of whatever he was holding back. He’d been unusually quiet all morning, not that he was the ever the type for small talk, but something felt off. Something had felt off all week if he was being honest; between Yevgeny and Liam’s joint birthday party planning and Ian’s new hours at Patsy’s, he couldn’t remember when they last had a real conversation. Granted, he’d been more than responsive when Ian satisfied his morning wood earlier, but he was quiet.

 

Momentarily distracted by tiny fingers digging into his collarbone, Ian looked down to where he held a sleeping Yevgeny in his arms, mesmerized as the baby’s chest rose and fell in time with his own. He’d been more than grateful that Svetlana left the little one to stay with them for a few days, after rounds of groveling by Ian for even five minutes to spend holding the soft blonde bundle. He vowed to never let a single inch of the child’s skin know harm, not even by his own hands. He had been reckless with him once, and once was one too many. He understood Svet’s hesitation, her quick jerks when Yev cried and fixed stares as Ian fed him from his highchair, but he’d missed him and never grew tired of spending time with Mickey’s kid. A swift tremble dusted across the baby’s bottom lip. Like father, like son.

 

Pounding rain whipped against their bedroom window, rattling the loose frame with each heavy gust of wind. The early November thunderstorms had picked up in intensity since last year, which left the three boys stuck inside all weekend. The tension between Ian and Mickey had been rough during the first few weeks after his release; nervous coddling from Mickey and the Gallaghers led to defensive outbursts from Ian, while his first set of meds induced bouts of crippling nausea. He swore to himself that it was all just a nightmare, that the heavy gray smoke that hung heavy over his brain couldn’t actually be what his life was gonna be like from now on. It couldn’t be. But it had been for a while, and it sucked.

 

It’d been two months of trial and error but the newest medication cocktail his doctor tried with him was a welcome improvement. Although he still felt nauseous from time to time, the smoke clouding his head was dissipating and now only a light fog remained; if he focused hard enough, he could see even past it to the clear that settled beneath, if only for a little while. Things were slowly getting better, he was slowly getting better—learning what “better” meant with bipolar disorder—but for the life of him, he couldn’t tell if Mickey felt the same.

 

“Hey Mick…you okay?”

“Wha—yeah, yeah I’m fine. Why you askin’?” the older boy answered back groggily.

           

“You’ve barely said anything all morning.”

           

“I’m talking right now aren’t I?” He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes. Mickey was not in the mood for this, knew where this was headed if he followed along. Still, he was trying—they were trying—so he didn’t want to mess up their balancing act. He did love the guy, after all. He sighed, softening his tone. “You take your meds yet?”

 

Ian lifted his head off the pillow and sat up against the headboard, shifting Yev up near his shoulders while trying not to wake him. Frustrated at the change in subject, he replied, “Come on, I’m serious, Mick. What’s bothering you?”

 

 _Everything,_ Mickey thought to himself. _Svetlana, that kid in your lap, your family. You, asking me these stupid fucking questions. Me._ He gulped down stale air and huffed out a breath, blowing off Ian’s concern and knocking his own back beneath the surface where it belonged. “Nothing, I’m just tired, okay? Had a shitty week. That UBER car scam Iggy and I were working on went bust so…”

 

“You know you can trust me.” Ian didn’t plan on giving up easy.

 

Exasperated, Mickey turned his head to face his boyfriend and took in the slate green eyes that glared back at him, cracking away at his hardened shell as they always had. He’d always secretly enjoyed it, but today was different. These layers were too deep to crack with one blow. When they first shattered, he spent months refilling the cracks. “Stop digging for shit. I’m fine”

 

Ian smirked, unsatisfied. Mickey read like an open book with large print. “I think I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re not fine, so stop pretending to be. Nothing about either of us has ever just been ‘fine’, so tell me what’s really going on.”

 

The sound of heavy rain and slick tire wheels sliced through the silence that followed.

 

Before Mickey had the chance to respond, a deep rumble of thunder clapped across the sky, waking Yev suddenly from his otherwise peaceful nap. Within moments, a soft cry escaped the infant’s pursed lips.

 

“Shit,” Ian cursed under his breath as the wails grew louder. He lifted him up to rest on his opposite shoulder, patting and rubbing his back in tender motions. “Shhhhh, it’s okay, little guy, it’s okay, I got you.”

 

Mickey eyed the two of them with mild jealousy, though something close to yearning burned hot underneath; he was still amazed at how much Ian bonded with Yev and vice versa. He decided to take full advantage of the pause and Ian’s mini distraction, shifting out of bed to walk over to the bathroom. After taking a quick piss, he stood in front of the sink and briefly glanced at his reflection in the mirror before opening the medicine cabinet. He looked the same as he always had, more or less, but there were small bags under his eyes built up after a week of restless sleep. He grabbed the three orange bottles on the top shelf, popped the caps off and took a pill from each. He then filled the mug sitting on the counter with water from the tap. This was the daily routine now. He didn’t mind it—it kept Ian stable, and anything that kept Ian stable was worth the effort—but it still felt so foreign to him. Daily pills were for old geriatrics in homes and sick people, and Ian didn’t always look sick and he wasn’t old. He looked down at the tablets in his hands. _He’s too young for all this._

Mickey reappeared in the doorway of their room, tapping the mug lightly against the wooden doorframe. He was nervous for Round 2, knew that Ian wasn’t dropping this. Ian spun his head towards the sound, drifting his gaze between the mug and Mickey. In response, Mickey turned his lips up into a weak smile and sauntered around to Ian’s side of the bed, placing the cup on the nightstand and the pills in the redhead’s open-faced palm.

 

“Like clockwork,” Ian remarked, more to himself than to Mickey. There was a twinge of sarcasm that bit through, but the truth behind his words bit harder.

 

For the first time all morning, Mickey’s silence held nothing back.

 

 ***

 

 

Ten minutes passed but the moments dragged like ten days. Mickey repositioned himself atop the sheets, cracking his knuckles to break the silence. He felt around his nightstand for his pack of cigarettes, grabbing one and balancing it between his lips. As he reached for his lighter, Ian said flatly, “Secondhand smoke kills, you know.”

 

“A little too late to complain, Gallagher.  And since when do you care?”

 

Ian didn’t respond. Mickey looked over to see him simply pointing down at Yev sitting on top of his stomach, preoccupied with the boy’s shirt hem.

 

“Whatever man.” Mickey gave a weak eye roll and threw the cigarette back on the nightstand. Another awkward silence ensued.

 

Ian lifted Yev’s arms, making faces as the baby giggled and gripped his fingers with both hands. A few more minutes passed before the redhead’s smile faded suddenly, body frozen with silent recognition.

 

“Wait. Is this what’s bothering you?”

 

“What?”

 

“Me with Yev.”

 

“We already talked about all that. You know I trust you with him, always have.”

 

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” Ian’s voice was much softer now, nearly a whisper as he stared at Mickey, eyes sadder than they’ve been in a long time.

 

Mickey just stared back, waiting for Ian to finally spit out whatever he was trying to tiptoe around. “Then what are you fucking talking about? The kid’s obviously obsessed with you and ever since Svet eased up off your ass, he’s been less fussy—“

 

“We’ve never talked about it.”

 

Mickey didn’t have to ask what _it_ meant. He knew. Ian knew that he knew. His mouth felt like used sandpaper and chalk dust. He averted Ian’s gaze, focused on the closet across the room, on the beer can he forgot to throw away on the dresser, on Ian’s jacket slung across an open drawer. Anything but Ian’s face. The walls echoed chants of _Dad, hold on!_ and _Get the fuck off him!_ , rang loud against his ears with piercing clarity. His cheeks flushed and burned as he remembered the day in flashes: blood and bruises trailing down Ian’s chest where Mickey’s tongue had been hours before; horrified helpless eyes reaching out to his sorry ones; the scalding water from the showerhead later that night as he scrubbed at his skin until the soap ran out, his skin splotchy and raw. He remembered not bothering to shower in the days following, accepting that he’d feel dirty regardless. It’s in these flashes that he wished his father’s pistol had struck him harder the first time.

 

He swallowed a dry gulp and stiffened, glassy eyes brimming with tears he didn’t dare let drop. “Nothing to talk about.” His voice faltered ever so slightly.

 

“Mickey, please…” Ian reached out his hand, lightly grazing the older boy’s bicep before he flinched and pulled away.

 

“No.”

 

“It’s been nearly two years and we still haven’t eve—”

 

“ _No._ ” Silence.

 

“Mick, I was there, too _._ I know wha—”

 

“ _JESUS CHRIST, Ian, I fucking said no!”_ Mickey’s cheeks still burned with the memory. He jolted himself off of the bed, grabbing his boots and brown sweater balled up on the floor. He needed air, needed to break something, needed for Ian to shut up. He tied up his laces before burying his palms against his wet lashes. He took a deep breath and steeled his face. “Going for a walk,” he called out behind him.

 

This time, it was Ian who fell silent.

 

***

 

 

The rain hit like icy stray bullets as Mickey walked hastily down the street, head down and hood pulled over his hair. He felt bad leaving Ian without an explanation, but he couldn’t form the words that Ian wanted him to say. At least not yet. He soon found himself in front of The Alibi and trudged inside, aggravated and cold.

 

The place was sparse for a Saturday, not that he minded. Kev stood next to the sink behind the bar, drying out glasses with a ratty towel and watching highlights from last week’s Bears game. Mickey walked up to the counter and plopped down on a stool.

 

“Whiskey.”

 

Kev peeled his eyes off the screen and nodded back. “Well well well, long time no see!” Mickey didn’t respond, didn’t look at him, didn’t do much of anything, really. “Everything good?” He slid an empty glass to where the boy was seated.

 

“No, everything isn’t fucking good. Just gimme the bottle, Big Foot, I’m not in the mood.” As Kev chuckled sarcastically at the jab, Mickey leaned forward and grabbed the brown liquor he’d asked for, too impatient to wait.

 

“Ah ah—not so fast, slick. “Big Foot” here’s not trying to get crap for getting you shitfaced before noon.” He jerked the bottle out of Mickey’s hand mid-pour, lifting it up and out of range.

 

“Since when do you care?”

 

“I got kids now, man.”

 

 _Yeah, so do I,_ Mickey thought back.

 

Kev continued. “Now what is it?”

 

Mickey just glared back, daring him to keep pushing and see what happens. He leaned forward, chest pressed against the bar and snatched the bottle back. “At the moment, it’s _you_.” He tipped his head back and drank directly from the handle, keeping eye contact with Kev the entire time.

 

 

 

Each drink slid down his throat easier than the last, the familiar burn growing to a dull ache. He wasn’t surprised when he held the bottle out in front of him and it was half empty. He felt a light buzzing against his leg every now and then, either from his phone or the alcohol, but didn’t care enough to check it. He knew that if it was his phone, it was Ian and he was in no shape to answer, anyway. He sloppily dropped the bottle back onto the bar counter, sloshing some of the contents. Kev looked on disapprovingly.

 

“Yeah, you’re done for the day.” He pulled the bottle away before Mickey could protest.

 

“Ay, fuck you very much,” he replied, voice slurred and hand raised. He flashed Kev the “C” on his right middle finger.

 

Mickey didn’t notice when the door swung open, revealing a dripping Ian, hair waterlogged and matted to his forehead. The boy shook his head as he walked towards his boyfriend, throwing a firm hand on his shoulder and guiding him slowly off the stool.

 

“What the fuck, Gallagher?” he whined, more confused than annoyed.

 

“We’re leaving.”

 

“We just got here!” Mickey waved his arms, gesturing to his glass on the counter and the other bar patrons.

 

Ian simply maintained his hold on the smaller boy, keeping him upright and grabbing his jacket that had fallen to the floor.

 

“How much does he owe you?” he asked Kev, who looked on with worry and mild amusement.

 

“Don’t worry about it—I’ll add it to Frank’s tab. Just…keep an eye on him. He didn’t look too good when he came in.”

 

Ian nodded knowingly before steering Mickey toward the exit and back into the rainy onslaught. He wasn’t going to let Mickey drink himself numb and shut him out again, not if he could help it. Too much time in their relationship had been about numbing, forgetting; he wanted to lay it all out and put the bent and battered pieces together, even if he had no clue what image they were working towards.

 

Mickey tried (and failed) to pull his jacket on, his arms getting caught or missing the sleeve opening entirely. He stumbled and swayed under Ian’s hold as they walked toward the Milkovich family car across the street.

 

“Hey where the fuck you dragging me to?”

 

Ian slung the jacket around his shoulders, gripping it in place. “Going for a drive.”

 

“Drive? You can’t drive, you’re drunk.” Mickey paused, standing at the back of the car. He held his hand up in protest and reached for Ian’s pocket to grab the car keys, but Ian caught his wrist just in time.

 

“ _You’re_ drunk. And I’m driving. Now come on and get in, it’s freezing.” He ushered him into the passenger’s seat as best he could, shutting the door and taking a deep breath. He didn’t know if his plan was going to work but as he looked through the rain-streaked window, he knew the boy slumped against the leather was worth the risk every time. He pulled his damp jacket over his ears and ran to the driver’s side.

 

“Buckle up,” Ian said as he turned on the ignition and messed with the heating nobs.

 

Mickey turned his head, making a face and pulling at the belt dramatically before obeying. Even drunk—always when drunk—he had to be difficult. It would’ve bothered Ian more if he weren’t so cute about it.

 

 

*** 

 

 

The sound of squeaky windshield wipers and the Top 40 station were the only sounds that filled the car for most of the ride. Mickey stared aimlessly out of the passenger side window while Ian focused on the road, leaning forward to see through the downpour as they sped down the interstate. Remembering the bag of snacks he’d bought before picking up Mickey at The Alibi, he reached back behind him and felt around the floor of the backseat.

 

“Here,” he announced, tossing a container of barbeque Pringles and a water bottle onto Mickey’s lap. “To help you sober up.”

 

“You gonna tell me where we’re going yet?”

 

“You gonna tell me why you left me and your kid to get drunk instead of talking to me?”

 

Mickey chuckled under his breath, waving off the dig. ‘Where is he, anyway?”

 

“Debs said she’d watch him for a few hours.”

 

“Great.” They settled back into silence as Mickey popped open the chips and Ian reached into the center console for his midday dosage.

 

 

 

As they got closer to Ian’s intended destination, Mickey took in the familiar sights through the blurry glass: the barbed wire fencing, the tan-colored security tower, the emptiness surrounding all of it. A gray bus with black caging around the windows buzzed by and his stomach clenched at the realization. He felt the fire return to his cheeks.

 

“Why the _FUCK_ are we here, Ian?!” Mickey growled, low and seething. He continued looking out the window in disbelief.

 

Ian pulled into a space at the far back of the visitor parking lot and switched off the engine. “He’s in there, you know.”

 

“Of course I fucking know, now why the fuck are _we_ here?”

 

“…sitting in a cell, rotting like the piece of trash he is.”

 

“You gonna answer my fucking question or tell me shit I already know?” Mickey spat, having lost all patience.

 

“Let him go,” Ian said as he rested his head on his arms against the steering wheel.

 

“ _What?_ ”

Ian turned his head, eyes locking onto a wider pair seated beside him. “What that prick did to you was disgusting and horrible but you can’t let it ruin you like this. You don’t deserve this. Don’t give him the satisfaction. I mean, you were doing so well but I’ve seen that look in your eye recently whenever anyone mentions Yev being your son, especially this past week, and I don’t know h—”

 

Mickey scoffed, refusing to believe the words that were actually pouring from his boyfriend’s mouth. “ _Are you kidding me?_ And this is coming from the guy who stole ‘my son’ to avoid getting help, right? But God fucking forbid, I let my shit ruin me for 5 whole fucking minutes when it stares me in the fucking face every fucking day. Yeah, okay, whatever, Ian. Consider me un-ruined.” He snapped his fingers. “Happy now?”

 

If only it were actually that easy. The words had flown out of his mouth faster than he could process. He felt angry and defensive; he didn’t mean to throw Ian’s bipolar disorder in his face, but part of him didn’t care how hard he had to hit back in order to protect himself and the other part was still drunk. His father’s marks were apparently far deeper than bruises. “At least you can take some fucking pills and make it all disappear.”

 

“You were raped, Mickey.”

 

The four words shot through the stale air like missiles, piercing Mickey’s well-constructed defense and lodging in. He felt like wet cement, hardening into place. He could feel Ian’s eyes tunneling through his skin again, begging him to turn around and see him but Mickey didn’t want to see. He wanted to forget: forget that day, forget his father, forget the scar Svetlana had named Yevgeny and that Mickey had grown to love. He thought the old wound had crusted and scabbed over, only to watch it peel back and split all over again. He felt tears sting his eyes and blur his vision, mixing with the rainy scene outside that surrounded them.

Ian looked down to where Mickey’s hand grasped the seat upholstery, knuckles white and strained, before placing his hand on top and caressing the tattooed skin. His voice was soft but uneasy. “Your dad raped and abused you, but now he’s behind those walls,” he gestured to the cinderblock building at the opposite side of the lot, “and he’s not gonna hurt you anymore, and if he ever gets out we’ll either kill him or send him right back and you know that. You have to know that. He’s over, done.” He took a breath, clutching the smaller hand under his even harder and lacing his fingers. “But now Yev’s almost a year old, and that scares you ‘cause soon he’ll call you ‘dad’ and then it’ll feel _real,_ this will all feel real _._ ”

 

Mickey rubbed a hand violently across his eyes before sliding the car lock, unbuckling and pulling the door handle before shoving his way out. The cold rain struck his face and quickly began soaking through his clothes, freezing over every sickening thought that lingered inside him. He felt the numbness slowly inch closer and offer to take control. He didn’t fight it off.

 

Ian ran a hand through his hair, still damp from earlier, before stepping out and joining Mickey in the rain. He watched from across the car as Mickey shakily grabbed for a cigarette from his jacket pocket and searched for his lighter.

 

“Here,” Ian sighed, offering up his own. He hurried over to where he stood, leaning in and lighting the cigarette that hung from Mickey’s mouth. His lips were slightly blue and trembling. “You’ll never be like him, Mick. You’re _not_ him. No one can change what happened—and believe me, if I could take all that away from you I would, I’d give you every fucking pill but I can’t—and I’m sorry. _I’m so sorry._ But Yevgeny, he’s…maybe he’s the pill, maybe he’s the closest we’ll ever get to fixing this.”

 

Mickey blinked aggressively through rain-coated lashes, smoking his cigarette and holding back as best he could while avoiding Ian’s gaze. Ian pressed on, water spraying from his mouth from the rain. He was too scared to stop talking, afraid of what the silence would mean.

 

“Just hear me out. He’s your son and not ‘cause he has your DNA, you know? We both have shitty dads, but that doesn’t mean we’re gonna end up deadbeats like them. We won’t. You love Yev and he loves you and you’re a good dad to him, Mickey. And shit, I know it’s probably hard looking at him sometimes and not thinking about it but…it’s not Yev’s fault. It’s not your fault.

 

“When I was sick that first time, I remember hearing your voice out in the living room trying to get him to stop crying after he woke up one night. You kept telling him that you were there. And you were. And if you ever can’t be…there…you’re not alone. You’re never gonna be alone, you got that? You got me and Svet and…I can’t speak for Svet but I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving.” Ian rubbed at Mickey’s arms, begging him to see the truth in his words.

 

Mickey inhaled deeply through the soggy cigarette filter, holding the smoke in for a long moment before releasing it through his nose. As he exhaled, the final remnants of his internal defense crumbled around him. What began as a soft catch in his throat became a defeated sob, breathy and rough. Ian didn’t recall ever witnessing him so vulnerable in his life. He’d seen him helpless and afraid before, but this was different; this fear was self-driven, a fear of destruction by his own doing.

 

Without hesitation, he pulled the dark-haired boy into his chest, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and cradling his head. He could feel Mickey’s legs shaking as he slowly reciprocated the embrace, grasping at the back of Ian’s coat as if it were his only hold to life.

 

“I got you,” Ian whispered against Mickey’s ear, a silent promise that whatever shit happened to them and whatever they needed to deal with, that he’d always be there. He’d be the last wall standing when the rest came crashing down, and the first when they built them all back up again. “I got you.”

 

They just stood there, time passing of its own volition, breathing in one another and sensing everything they couldn’t find the words to say.

 

 _I’m sorry._ Mickey pressed his face in the crook of Ian’s neck.

_I need you._ Mickey clawed at Ian’s sides with slippery fingers.

_I love you._ Ian rested his chin on Mickey’s head and felt his own walls crumble as he let stray tears fall into the black hair below, exhausted but hopeful.

The unsaid words ghosted over their rain-soaked skin and clothes, seeping into their pores. Ian only pulled away when he felt Mickey shiver against him, the wet air finally getting to him. The rain had begun to let up a little, the air tasting crisp on their tongues.

 

He stared down to meet crystal blue eyes rimmed red. He’d give anything to remove the pain that still found a place behind them, would suit up and fight whatever demons kept him up at night. If only it were actually that easy. They both knew it never was.

 

Mickey let out a muffled laugh, breaking the heaviness of the moment. He took in Ian’s face which looked as wrecked from emotions as his felt, rainwater dripping down his cheeks and masking the tears that still stained them. He glanced around and took in their surroundings. “We’re standing in the middle of a fucking prison parking lot, crying in the rain. What the fuck’s happened to us?”

 

Ian smiled shyly; it did seem pretty ridiculous when he heard it said aloud, but he was thankful that he’d grabbed onto the thought amidst the sea of others that ran through his head. “A lot. But I think we’ll be okay.” He planted his lips on Mickey’s forehead, closing his eyes and willing his boyfriend to believe it.

 

In the meantime, he’d hold him strong through the storm, back braced and unwavering as Mickey had done for him in the months before. And if they got a little wet, so be it. At least they were trying. They’d gone from fighting fists to fighting fathers and now they’d fight just as hard through fatherhood, however foreign the concept.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This took me 3 weeks to finally sit down and finish because I kept editing and re-editing, so tell me what you think! :-) 
> 
>  
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](http://www.thedailygiggy.tumblr.com)


End file.
